


Slow Time

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is gravity, and Time is elastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Time

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to [](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_flashfiction/profile)[**ds_flashfiction**](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_flashfiction/) 's for Amnesty 2007 for the time challenge. Apologies for poetic license/loose paraphrasing of Einsteinian theory. But I swear hospital waiting rooms will teach you all you ever wanted to know about time dilation.

It happens so quickly, in barely a breath. One moment Ray is beside him, shuffling a side step as he grabs Fraser's arm and yammers excitedly about the boxing match. And in the next instant—

—Fraser will never remember, later, breaking the shooter's jaw with his fist. He only knows the gun is now in his hand, which is aching oddly.

He spins back, is pulled by gravity to Ray's crumpled form, and time becomes a sluggish thing, stubborn, like the endless minutes before the watchtower's chime. So Fraser has ample opportunity to decry the limits of his emergency training while he holds his palm flush against Ray's wounded side. The seconds turn into a languid progression of pulse points ticking slower and slower against his hand.

Unbearably slow.

The ambulance arrives, summoned by his frantic call on Ray's cell phone, now sticky with blood. There is blood everywhere, deepening the crimson of Fraser's sleeves. He thinks, crazily, about his cleaning bills, which have increased exponentially since their return from the Territories. So many fraught situations, so many eager leaps and scuffles and dives into dumpsters, ponds, and filthy alleyways. It seems as if lately they have been daring each other, egging each other on in some unknown game to see who can do the worst damage.

The damage is serious this time. This time Ray may have won the contest. Or defaulted; Fraser is unclear. He shifts in the waiting room chair, moves to scratch his eyebrow, and is halted by the deep red staining his hands like a pair of obscene gloves.

It's Ray's. Ray's blood. Somewhere, behind those double-doors, Ray is fighting to live. Fraser knows this, because Ray could never turn down a good fight. It isn't in his character.

Fraser's teeth are clenched together, and he forces himself to relax. Across the room is a little boy and his mother. The child has dark hair and wide blue eyes that are staring at Fraser's stained hands.

Rising stiffly, Fraser goes to the bathroom to wash them clean.

///

Welsh comes storming in, his tie askew and his jacket slung over one rumpled shoulder.

"Constable. What's his condition?"

It takes a moment for Fraser to gather the proper response. "Unknown, sir. I'm still waiting for the word." His voice cracks appallingly, a break in form, but the lieutenant's expression turns kind.

"Kowalski's a fighter, Fraser. I wouldn't—"

"Yes, of course! You're quite right." There is an ache in the back of Fraser's throat, a heaviness there as if he's swallowed too large a mouthful of cold water. He remembers the blood-slick clasp of their hands. He wonders if Ray will—if Ray will remember.

Welsh clears his throat. "The shooter is in the hospital lock-up. It was pure shit-luck—seems he'd just robbed a bodega and recognized Ray when he ran straight into you two."

"Ah."

Mercifully, the lieutenant says nothing more, and they wait in silence. After a while, Welsh rises and returns with two Styrofoam cups filled with hot, black coffee. Fraser accepts his with a nod, his usual courtesy gone absent.

The coffee is truly vile, but Fraser drinks it anyway. It seems to ease the ache in his throat and the cold hollow in his gut. He loses himself again in the wasteland of slow time. Amazing how the months of their adventure passed as if in moments.

"In the Cartesian framework," Fraser mutters, "time is a matrix."

"What's that, Constable?"

Fraser clears his throat. "I was considering the nature of time, sir. Einsteinian, or relativistic time, is a much more believable model. He posited we tie time together through the threads of our crossings in the here and now. Thus our perception of time changes—speeds, or slows—based on action. It is impossible to move in time without moving in space."

"So perhaps we should try pacing?" Welsh sounds wry. But underneath, Fraser detects the note of his concern—for Ray, he assumes.

"I imagine that would only slow time further," Fraser says, somewhat nonsensically. He rubs his eyebrow. He's had so _much_ time—so many months. Years, really. Wasted.

"Ah. As in, a watched thread never crosses."

Fraser starts with surprise. "I suppose not." He is grateful for Welsh's obvious effort, for his intelligent humor.

They sink back into silence. The clock on the wall to Fraser's right hand is ticking; has been, he realizes. It seems to grow louder with each tick. The sound makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, force himself to molt; not like a bird, but a snake. Snakes molt, and in their molting, grow.

Ray's eyes had stared up at him, as if pleading for something. Something Fraser didn't know how to give. But if he could molt—

His mind goes queerly blank.

///

The doctor comes, eventually, and they rise to meet him. A tall, haggard-looking man with stained teeth, he reminds Fraser oddly of Mort. Dr. Shaw informs them that Ray is out of surgery; that the bullet had passed beneath his ribs, avoiding internal organs; that he really is quite lucky.

The information seems to wash against Fraser without impact. It isn't until the doctor says, "...in Recovery," and, "...visitors, once he's in a private room," that Fraser is given to understand that Ray isn't going to—Ray is alive. Ray will live.

With that, time suddenly thumps hard on Fraser's chest. He feels as if he is waking from a delirium dream. Welsh gives him a clap on the shoulder blade, and then grips Fraser's arm when the force of it nearly topples him.

"Easy now, Constable. Let's just sit back down, shall we?"

It's humbling. But he follows the pull to sit down once again on the curved plastic chair. Welsh settles beside him with a creak and then rubs his face with both hands.

He's been worried, too. Of course he has. But it's over now. Time has sped to its appropriate, natural pace. As soon as Fraser is with Ray again, it will speed even further.

Ray will live, and with life comes hope.

Or so they say.

///

Ray is so still, as he never is, and pale against the clean white sheets, his stubble looking even darker in contrast. Fraser is drawn closer so he can hear the steady breathing, detect the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He needs to see movement.

His shadow lands on Ray's face, and Ray frowns, but doesn't awaken.

Time slows again.

///

"H-ey." Ray's rough voice, creaky with disuse or as a result of the painkillers. One hand waves slightly. For a beat, Fraser is content.

"Ray—"

But Ray is already gone again.

Fraser waits.

///

"You gotta sneak me a burrito or something, Frase. Because I'm telling you, this hospital gunk is for the birds."

"I'm sure it's amply high in nutritive value—"

"It's puke-worthy—"

"—and meets your current caloric needs—"

"—I'd rather eat _pemmican_ , Fraser. Pemmican with maybe a nice side of walrus blubber."

"Ah. Well, as it happens..." Fraser pretends to reach for his belt pouch and receives a weak glare for his trouble. In spite of the banter flowing easily between them, Fraser can't take his eyes off of Ray's angular, pale face. He's lost a lot of blood, of course. That’s why he's so pale, so thin seeming. It's only temporary.

"So, when'm I getting out of here?"

"Soon, Ray. Just a matter of days."

"You call that soon?" Ray shifts and then winces with an ugly sound, and Fraser makes an aborted move toward him, hands lifting. He catches an odd look gleaming in Ray's eyes, and subsides.

"Well, I realize 'soon' is a relative concept—" But Fraser's throat clutches. The memory is still too recent. He can still smell Ray's blood, though he knows it's impossible, a nightmarish fantasy. And Ray really is all right.

"I'm all right, Fraser," Ray says, his eyes far too knowing. Fraser takes a deep breath.

"Did you know, Ray, that time can slow and speed based on events? For example, it only takes seventy milliseconds for a nerve impulse to travel from your finger to receptors in your brain. And yet in times of crisis our thought processes are even faster than that—"

"Hey, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Did you know time goes even slower when you're stuck in a hospital bed being lectured by a damned Mountie?"

"Ah. No, I wasn't aware of that phenomenon."

They are quiet a moment, and something in Ray's steady gaze makes the muscles of Fraser's neck twitch in warning.

"We got a problem?"

"No," Fraser says promptly. "There's no problem, Ray."

"Because I always get suspicious when you start yapping 'bout this or that theory."

"I can't imagine why."

Silence again, and the twitch travels up Fraser's scalp. He raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck.

Ray shakes his head. After a while, he moves his legs again, obviously seeking a more comfortable position, but then freezes with a gasp.

This time Fraser can't help himself. He rises to hover over Ray's still form, his hands useless at his sides.

"Is there something I can do, Ray? Do you need the nurse?"

"No," Ray says, his voiced pained. "What I need is, I need to get it through my thick head I been shot. Jesus, this sucks."

"Yes. I know," Fraser says helplessly. His hand, under no control from any higher brain function, drops to rest on Ray's bare arm.

Ray sighs.

It's...a pleased sound, that quiet sigh. Encouraged, Fraser reaches back to pull his chair closer to Ray's bedside, then re-possesses that small space of skin. His fingers brush lightly against the softness of Ray's inner arm.

Ray closes his eyes. His lips rise in a slight smile, creasing his stubbled cheek.

"Is this all right?" Fraser whispers, unable to believe that smile.

"Yeah." Ray's grin grows wider. "It's kinda distracting."

Fraser's fingers travel lightly to the crease in Ray's elbow, and then back down to his wrist. "And that’s...good?"

Ray's eyes open a crack. "Yeah, that's good, Fraser."

"Oh." Fraser's palms are suddenly damp, and he lifts his hand to wipe it on his pants.

Ray frowns. "That means don't stop, dummy."

"Right." Fraser clears his throat. "Right you are." He hastily puts his hand back, trails his fingers down the golden hairs of Ray's forearm, over the fine bones of his wrist, to rest on his elegant hand. "And this...?"

Ray's hand turns to clasp his. "Yeah, this too. It's all greatness." His eyes are staring, blue, peaceful in his pale face.

Fraser can barely speak. "Good." His heart is pounding, pounding.

Ray's teeth flash a wolfish grin. "Good."

///

In Ray's wide bed, time behaves strangely, like the river near a dam—a startling rush diverting into slower, dizzying eddies.

The time when Ray is touching him, teasing him with hands, mouth and tongue stroking across Fraser's bare skin, is slow, blissful torment. Fraser is worried about Ray's half-healed wound, but Ray is unstoppable, and yet contrarily patient. He chuckles against Fraser's skin, and Fraser realizes his groaning has mutated into hoarse begging.

Frustrated, he lunges up to turn Ray easily beneath him, and now time goes slipstream, because he can never have enough of this, of Ray's low-breathed moans, of Ray helpless under his hands, his mouth. There will never be enough time to explore every texture of Ray's beautiful skin, nipples licked into rough peaks, hard shoulders trembling, muscles shifting. Fraser sinks lower, kisses wetness from the tip of Ray's erection, and hears Ray's involuntary cry. Pressing his mouth against the thick veins branching from the base of Ray's shaft, Fraser counts the rapid pulse beats with the surface of his lips, his tongue.

He rises at Ray's stuttered command to press slickly inside, easing inward, drinking in the wide eyes, the arch of Ray's chest. The pleading for deeper, for faster. Faster and faster, thrusting, hurrying time along like a drunken loiterer. _No, no, no_ —now it's too fast, and Ray moans, clasping him tight, hips thrashing, and there is no time left at all.

Blissful void. And then the slick curl of Ray's tongue against his neck jerks Fraser back to awareness. He has, with great fortune, avoided collapsing on the half-healed patient.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," Fraser says. But Ray just snickers and licks him again, making Fraser tense in a shudder. Contrary, impossible man.

"Let the record note you got a sensitive spot there, Fraser."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yeah." Ray licks again, and goose pimples rise on Fraser's arms. He lets one hand slide up Ray's lean thigh to nestle a palm against his semi-hard flesh.

Time starts to speed once more. It's most unfair. Perhaps Ray understands Fraser's concerns, because he pulls Fraser into a soft, slow kiss-upon-kiss, their lips meeting again and again. It seems to go on forever before Ray finally subsides, relaxing momentarily next to him.

Fraser's hand finds a natural perch on the narrow bone of Ray's hip. He may never let go.

"Ray...Ray," he whispers, voice hoarse. Ray's kisses will likely destroy him. "I can't believe you...I finally—"

"Yeah." Ray laughs and nips him once with sharp teeth.

"It's about damned time."

.................  
2007.12.21


End file.
